As soon as he had hung up, the phone rang again. He answered it, trying to sound a little nicer this time.
“Is Mary Ann there?” came a woman’s voice that sounded strangely familiar.
“She’s in Cleveland,” he replied, opting for consistency. “She should be back by Friday.”
“Will you give her a message for me?”
“Sure.”
“Tell her I found the notes she left behind at the station. It’s vitally important that I talk to her.”
“Right. Who is this, please?”
“Bambi Kanetaka. Shall I spell it?”
“No,” said Brian. “I know it. You’re the anchorperson, right? You’re famous.”
“Tell her I can’t sit on this.”
Brian suppressed a laugh. To hear Mary Ann tell it, this must be the only thing that Bambi Kanetaka couldn’t sit on.
“Tell her that I won’t tell Larry until she calls me … but she must call me as soon as possible. From Cleveland, if necessary. Do you understand?”
“I think so,” said Brian.
Now what? he thought. Now what?
Dire Needs
MARY ANN SLEPT FITFULLY AT THE POTLATCH House. Twice during the night she awoke to DeDe’s screams, only to fall victim to her own nightmares when she plunged into sleep again. Morning came as a reprieve at 7:30.
DeDe was already up, studying a map as she sipped a cup of black coffee. When she realized that Mary Ann’s eyes were opened, she smiled apologetically and said: “Night of the Living Dead, huh?”
Mary Ann smiled back at her. “We can handle it.”
“Want some coffee?”
“I think I’ll wait,” said Mary Ann. “I’m wired enough as it is.”
DeDe looked down at the map again. “We’re having breakfast with Prue, if that’s O.K. with you. I want her to take us to the man with the rabbits. Later, I thought we could check the car rental agencies and airplane people.”
A long silence followed while Mary Ann wrestled with the monstrous futility of their search. Then she said: “DeDe … don’t you think …?” She cut herself off, suddenly wary of seeming disloyal to the undertaking.
“What?” said DeDe. “Say it.”
“Well … it just seems to me that we’re losing time by doing this ourselves. If we told the police, they could be issuing all-points bulletins, or whatever it is that they do.”
“Issuing press releases is more like it.”
“But we don’t have to tell them who we think he is … just that he took the children.” From Mary Ann’s standpoint, that was all that mattered, anyway: someone had kidnapped the twins.
DeDe poured herself more coffee. “The point is not what the police know, but what he knows.”
“But surely he can’t expect us to …?”
“I know this man, Mary Ann. You keep forgetting that.”
“But how can you be so sure he won’t … Surely, those rabbits were proof enough of his …”
“Those rabbits were a little bit of bad symbolism and nothing more. He has a weakness for grand gestures. That was just his way of … being Daddy.”
“But what makes you think he won’t harm the children?”
DeDe shrugged. “Because he loves them.”
“You can’t be serious!”
“Well, that’s the way he sees it. What happened in Jonestown, anyway? When did the killing start? When the outside world invaded his private fantasy of peace and love. I missed the massacre, Mary Ann, and I’m not going to let it happen again. If I want my children back alive, I’ve got to find them before the media find out about Jones. It’s as simple as that.”
Breakfast was a harrowing affair. Prue was a wreck, and Mrs. Halcyon was a worse wreck. DeDe, to her credit, stayed calm throughout, absolving her mother and the columnist of all guilt in exchange for their absolute silence on the subject. Prue had no trouble consenting to this condition; Mrs. Halcyon did so with great reluctance.
DeDe, of course, gave no indication that she knew who the kidnapper was.
On the way to the airport, Prue pointed out the house of the man with the rabbits. Mary Ann made a quick note of the address, feeling weirder by the minute. Half-an-hour later, Prue and Mrs. Halcyon were airborne, bound for San Francisco, while Mary Ann and DeDe conferred with the last known witness of the abduction.
“I was in the kitchen when it happened,” said the rabbit fancier. “He was out here with the kids at the hutches. I couldn’t tell what was happening until I got out here, and then it was too late.”
Mary Ann looked contrite. “We’re awfully sorry about the …”
“He didn’t say anything?” interrupted DeDe. “Nothing at all?”
“Hell, no. He hightailed it. I found a book of matches out here later in the day. He must’ve dropped it, I guess. They were from the Red Dog Saloon in Juneau. That help you any?”
“Do you still have them?” asked DeDe.
“Hang on,” said the man. He went into the house, returning seconds later with the matchbook. DeDe turned it over in her hand, then opened it. Written in felt-tip pen on the inside was this word: DIOMEDES.
“‘Diomedes,’ ” said DeDe, turning to the man. “Do you know what that means?”
The man shook his head. “Sorry.”
DeDe frowned, discarding the matchbook. “It probably doesn’t mean a damn thing.”
“Wait,” blurted Mary Ann.
“Yeah?”
“Diomedes. That’s what Prue heard. Not dire needs—Diomedes!”
Definitions
DIOMEDES.
It had a vaguely scientific sound to it, chemical perhaps. It also suggested a classical figure, like Diogenes and Archimedes. Mary Ann, however, deduced that its roots were geographical, since Mr. Starr had been heard using the word in conversation with a pilot.
“You’re probably right,” said DeDe, pocketing the matchbook. “It’s not like him, though, to be so careless about leaving a clue behind. I think it’s best to check our logical sources first.”
Their first stop, via cab, was a car rental agency near the waterfront. There, sounding remarkably nonchalant, DeDe confronted a fastidiously groomed young woman in a two-tone green uniform.
“A friend of ours may have rented a car here yesterday. We were wondering if you’d mind checking … if it’s no trouble.”
The young woman’s smile fell. “We don’t normally give out that kind of information.”
“Why the hell not?”
Mary Ann stepped forward, touching the small of DeDe’s back. “Uh … it’s kind of stupid, really. He told us to be sure to use the same rental agency he used, and we forgot to ask him the name. Dumb, huh?”
The woman refused to thaw. “Customer records are confidential. If I gave out that kind of information, I’m afraid it would be an invasion of privacy. If you’d like to rent a car, I’d be glad …”
“This isn’t a fucking missile station, you know!” DeDe was edgier than ever.
This time Mary Ann gripped her elbow. “We don’t need you to check the computer, actually. They’d be easy to recognize.”
“I thought it was one person.”
“One adult,” amended Mary Ann, before DeDe could speak. “A nice-looking man about fifty and four-year-old twins, a boy and a girl.”
“Eurasian,” added DeDe.
“I’m what?” snapped the woman.
DeDe groaned. Before she could retaliate, Mary Ann said: “The children are part Chinese. They were wearing fur-lined parkas. I think you would’ve remembered them if …” The woman had become an obelisk; it was futile to continue. Mary Ann addressed DeDe, who was smoldering. “I think we’d better go.”
DeDe shot daggers at her adversary until she was out of sight.
At the next agency, DeDe did all the talking, while Mary Ann looked for a dictionary at a neighboring motel. The desk clerk produced a battered volume which Mary Ann consulted while standing in the lobby.
She found
this:
Diomedes n. Class. Myth. 1. the son of Tydeus, next in prowess to Achilles at the siege of Troy. 2. a Thracian king who fed his wild mares on human flesh and was himself fed to them by Hercules.
When DeDe emerged from the rental agency, Mary Ann was waiting for her on the street.
“Any luck?” asked DeDe.
“Afraid not.”
“They didn’t have a dictionary?”
“They had one. Diomedes wasn’t in it.”
“There’s a book store over there. Maybe they would know.”
Mary Ann shook her head. “I think we’re beating a dead horse.” Clever girl, she told herself. You have a cliché for every occasion.
DeDe persisted. “The sign says: ‘Specializing in Alaska Lore.’ If anybody would know, they would. It’s worth a try, at any rate. C’mon.”
Hundreds of musty volumes were stacked everywhere in the tiny book store: on shelves, on tables, on the floor. But there wasn’t a person in sight.
“Hello,” hollered DeDe.
No answer.
“I think we should check the float plane places,” said Mary Ann, inching towards the door.
“Hold it … I hear somebody.”
The proprietor, an Ichabod Crane look-alike, emerged from the back room. “Yes, ladies. May I help you?”
“I hope so,” said DeDe. “We need some information. Do you know what the word ‘Diomedes’ means?”
The man smiled instantly, unveiling the sizable gap between his front teeth. “You mean,The Diomedes.” He might have been talking about old friends, like The Martins or The Browns. “What would you like to know about ‘em?”
“For starters,” said DeDe, “what are they?”
“Islands,” replied the bookseller.
“Thank God!” said Mary Ann.
DeDe turned and scrutinized her. “Why thank God?”
Mary Ann reddened. “I … well, I’m just glad somebody knows.”
“Where are they?” asked DeDe, addressing the proprietor again.
“Way north of here. In the Bering Strait. Cute little buggers. Little Diomede and Big Diomede. The little one’s about four square miles. The other’s … oh, twenty or so. No trees. Lots of rocks and Eskimos. The two of ’em are just a few miles apart.”
“Is anything … special there?” asked Mary Ann.
The man grinned like a jack o’lantern. “It’s not what they are, but where.”
“How so?” asked DeDe.
“Well,” said the man. “Little Diomede’s in the United States and Big Diomede’s in Russia.”
Revising the Itinerary
THAT SON OF A BITCH,” MUTTERED DEDE, BACK IN THEIR room at the Potlatch House, “that two-bit Bolshevik son of a bitch. Jesus H. Christ … Russia!”
Mary Ann felt more ineffectual than ever. “I’d forgotten how close we were,” she said.
“He probably lives there,” added DeDe. “He’s got what he wanted and he’s heading home.”
“But the trip was our idea, DeDe. How could he have known we were doing it? How could he …?”
“Maybe he just lucked into it. How the hell do I know? What does it matter, this speculation? He could be back in Moscow by now!”
“Not really,” said Mary Ann, perusing DeDe’s map of Alaska. “Not unless they made terrific airlines connections. The closest big city to the Diomedes is Nome and that’s over eleven hundred miles from here. Then he’d have to get a smaller plane to take them to the Diomedes. Plus, there must be some sort of restriction on travel between Little Diomede and Big Diomede. It’s a pretty complicated scheme.”
“If anybody could do it, he could.”
“It would take money,” countered Mary Ann.
“Prue said he had lots of it. He had lots of it in Jonestown—trunks of it—enough to last him the rest of his life. He could bribe his way from here to Timbuktu if he wanted to.”
Mary Ann rummaged for a word of consolation. “In one way, you know, this helps us. I mean … it narrows the focus of our search. The man at the book store said Little Diomede is only four square miles. Any airplane trying to land there would be noticed immediately … if he’s trying to make a jump into Russia.”
“Yeah,” said DeDe dourly. “I suppose so.”
“So, if we call the authorities in Nome, they could relay …”
“No. No police!”
“We wouldn’t have to tell them …”
“No. I told you how I feel about that.” DeDe grabbed her tote bag and headed for the door. “There’s a travel agent two blocks away. I’ll check on the flights to Nome. Be back in twenty minutes.”
“DeDe …”
“All we’ve got to do is beat him there. We can hire people, if we have to. Once he lands on that island, we’ve got him cornered. Jesus, we’ve gotta hurry!” DeDe stopped when she reached the door. “Oh … I’m assuming you’re going with me?”
Mary Ann hesitated, then smiled as confidently as possible. “You assumed right,” she said.
As soon as DeDe had gone, Mary Ann called Brian at Perry’s.
“It’s me,” she said, perhaps a little too blithely. “Alive and well.”
“And living where?” He was understandably miffed.
“I’m sorry, Brian. I didn’t count on this.”
A long pause and then: “I’ve heard of brides-to-be getting cold feet, but this is ridiculous.”
She laughed uneasily. “You know it isn’t that.”
“Is it … the Jonestown business?”
“Yeah.”
“Christ! You aren’t in Jonestown, are you?”
Another laugh. “God, no. I’m fine. DeDe’s with me, and we should be back in a few days. I’m sorry to be so mysterious about all this, but I gave DeDe my word I wouldn’t talk for a while.”
“I miss the hell out of you.”
“I miss you, too.” For a moment, she thought she might cry. Instead, she said brightly: “It’s gonna be wonderful being Mrs. Hawkins!”
“Yeah?”
“You bet.”
“You don’t have to take my name, you know.”
“Fuck that,” she said. “I’m from Cleveland, remember?”
Finally, he laughed. “Get home, hear?”
“I will. Soon. How’s everybody?”
“O.K., I guess. Michael says he’s not getting laid these days. But who is? Jesus … I almost forgot. That asshole from the station called. He says you’re … let me get this right … ‘out on your ass’ if you’re not back at work on Friday.”
“Larry Kenan?”
“Uh-huh. And I think he meant it.”
“Breaks my heart.”
“I thought you might say that. Also, Bambi Kanetaka called to say that you left some notes at the station. She says she’ll give them to Larry if you don’t call her right away. What’s that all about?”
It took a moment for the catastrophe to sink in. “Oh, no,” groaned Mary Ann. “Those were my notes on DeDe and the whole … oh God, this is awful, Brian. Look, I have to call her right away. I’ll call you soon, O.K.?”
“Sure, but …”
“I love you. Bye-bye.”
Rough Treatment
IT WAS SUCH A STUPID MISTAKE—SUCH A STUPID, CONVENTIONAL, deadly mistake. Even in her panic and excitement, how could she have rushed off to Alaska, leaving those incriminating notes behind at the station?
At least Larry hadn’t found them. That was some consolation. Bambi was bad enough, of course, but there was some hope that her simplemindedness and/or vanity might be activated to prevent her from leaking the story to the world at large.
She pondered the problem for a minute or so, then looked up Bambi’s number in her address book and dialed her direct.
“Hello.” Bambi’s voice, vapid and breezy as ever, was accompanied by the sound of Andy Gibb’s falsetto.
“Bambi, it’s Mary Ann.”
“Aha! You still in Cleveland?”
Cleveland? Is that what B
rian told her? “Uh … yeah … what’s up?”
“Didn’t your boyfriend tell you?”
“Well … he said something about some notes, but I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant.”
“Does Jonestown ring a bell?”
Mary Ann counted. One … two … three … four. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “my treatment. How embarrassing! I hope you didn’t read it. It’s hopelessly corny at this point.”
“Treatment?”
“For a movie. I had this dumb idea for a thriller, and a friend of mine who knows this agent in Hollywood said I should work up some notes before making a formal presentation.”
“Oh.”
“It’s kind of moonlighting, I guess. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention it to …”
“You made up a story about Jim Jones?”
“Why not?” said Mary Ann. “Lots of writers make up stories about … say, Jack the Ripper. He was the boogeyman of his time; Jones is ours.”
“And that stuff about him having a double …?”
“Pretty dumb, huh?”
Silence.
“Oh well,” sighed Mary Ann. “This is my first crack at it. I guess I’ll get better as …”
“I like your casting,” said Bambi.
“Huh?”
“DeDe Day as the one who escapes from Guyana with her twins in tow. It’s ingenious, really, using a real-life person like that. It’s so outlandish that it could almost be true, couldn’t it?”
Silence.
“Couldn’t it, Mary Ann?”
The jig was obviously up. “Bambi, look …”
“No, you look. I have an obligation to give those notes to Larry, Mary Ann. I wanted you to know that. Frankly, I’m surprised you would sit on a story of this magnitude without seeking some sort of professional journalistic guidance.”
Meaning her, of course. “I had planned on consulting the news department,” said Mary Ann. “In fact, I thought you would be the ideal person to …” The lie caught in her throat like a bad oyster. “The story is yours, Bambi. I promise you that. Only we have to wait… just a little while.”